


Fate Itself

by Left_Handed_Darkness



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Deconstruction, Gen, Pre-KOTOR, Sith, Spoileriffic as fuck, no gizka were harmed in the writing of this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-09 17:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Darkness/pseuds/Left_Handed_Darkness
Summary: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...Chaos rages in the Galactic Republic. A fleet of unknown origin led by the former war hero, DARTH REVAN, swarms the galaxy with the intent to conquer all of known space. A new SITH ORDER rises under his command, formed from the Jedi who once served under his command in the Mandalorian Wars.Unable to hold back the unending tide of alien ships, the Republic enlists the aid of the JEDI COUNCIL. Understanding that strength of arms will not prevail against such an overwhelming force, the Jedi hatch a plan to confront the Dark Lord directly - hoping to leave his followers in a state of disarray, giving the Republic a fighting chance at survival.Amidst a republic ambush, Jedi padawan BASTILA SHAN leads a strike team aboard the Sith flagship, the fate of the galaxy resting in her hands...





	1. Ensnared

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first foray into what's planned to be both a write-up of my Knights of the Old Republic playthrough; featuring an exploration of some of the themes that Bioware could have had a closer examination of, a good prod at the characters involved and how the events of the game affect *them*, and a good chunk of deviation and expansion of what the game gives us. (Especially in regards to the ending, which I found to force my character into one of two extremes that... really didn't fit the character I was playing)
> 
> Bear in mind that the main plot twist is spoiled from the get-go - even if it's the worst kept secret in Star Wars fandom, I still want to allow those who want to experience the game for themselves (And somehow have avoided this damn twist even in the year 2018) with the chance to do so blindly. 
> 
> I'm also going to mention that this is to a degree, a deconstruction fic; the result of me having completed the game and then not long after, having realised that there was some pretty screwed up shit going on, decided to explore all the ways that the events would fundamentally affect the people involved. It's an acknowledgement that there's an ethical problem going on that goes beyond abstract notions of light and darkness, and how actions informed by ideology rather than a respect for peoples' humanity can easily slide towards the questionable end of the scale.
> 
> In short; the ends do not always justify the means, and those means can have some very human consequences.
> 
> On a final note, this is all done with no regards for Bioware's "canon" path through the game, or the characterisation found in the tie-in novel and SWtOR. This is based off of my blind run of the game and my later expansion upon the protagonist's personality and actions.

He should have died in the wilderness, alone and abandoned. For a long time he had quietly resented how he's been driven out and left to die - by his parents, by his village, by the people he'd thought had cared. He'd cried for hours, then crawled into a hollow between the roots of a tree.

These days he couldn't help but think that they'd been right; he'd become a monster right out of legend, a terrible priest-king of a long dead empire, a witch-blooded tyrant who had lived up to his ancestors’ nightmares.

Rakhan'aan might have known that the Jedi were coming if he hadn't been preoccupied with the chaos of battle. It was beautiful to him in its own way. How probabilities unfurled into branching paths, before collapsing into hard certainties; how fate and chance danced with one another in a bloody spectacle. He could feel the urgency and fear cut through durasteel and vacuum alike, and he basked in the warmth of his crew's emotions as the chaos played out.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong - that something was missing. That out there in the apparent chaos, something had gone beneath his notice.

An alarm went off - the ship had been boarded. Security squads were being cut down before than they could scramble.It meant only one thing:

Jedi.

He could sense them now, a growing silence amidst the cacophony of rage and death. A blind spot that became all the more noticeable against a backdrop of light. Quiet, dead, hollow shells that felt little, and suppressed what they did.

It was unnatural.

The fact that he'd ever been one at all felt like a lie, that he'd tried to suppress so much that had been vital to him. Reaching out with tendrils of thought and power, he brushed the minds of the intruders. There were five; the first was simmering with a sense of self-righteousness and duty, whilst the second was all mantras and repetition. The third bore scars, marked by experience and penitence.

Rakhan'aan paused for a moment, wondering if he shared a history with the third. Soon enough, he could feel that pull of tied fate, of mistakes made and regrets held.

The fourth was a bottle of barely guarded anxieties, all suppressed into a tight corner where they hoped to deny themselves. Rakhan'aan’s lips curled into an amused smile at that - a weak point had been found. Jedi like that were merely a breath away from breaking, and he'd had plenty of experience in that regard.

Yet the fifth worried him - Or at least came as close to worried as he could understand. He could sense nothing from them - Not through mental shielding, but as if something was interfering with his own nature, blinding him to the fifth’s intent. There were several talents he knew of that were able to do such things, but none of them could be recognised whilst active.He drew his lightsabers and fell into a trance.

* * *

Haraim hadn’t been fighting the Sith for quite as long as one or two of the others, but he found a sense of purpose and dignity in doing so. At first he had been cautious about getting involved - Master Vrook had been quite thorough in his warnings against the spiritual dangers that war presented. But in the end, he realised that the Sith were no ordinary threat; but one that the Jedi Order itself was responsible for protecting the galaxy from.

And also a mistake of their own making.

He frowned for a moment. That last thought was unlike him - and he could swear that he could feel a faint touch of amusement that wasn't his own. Irony, even.

He brushed it off, continuing down the corridor, deflecting blasterfire with the supernatural grace of soresu-form swordplay.

Pain hit from behind, a burning green brand stabbing through his gut. The last thing he could hear was the terrified whimpering of the woman stood behind him, shifting into wobbly, nervous laughter…

* * *

Aq’qularr stood there, staring at the sandy-haired Jedi’s back, her lightsaber driven right through his spine. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the taste of blood and blind terror that drowned out every thought.

The Force had guided her, putting her into a defensive stance, assuaging her worries, lending her strength. She'd let herself lose every thought to its flows, and it had been her ally.

Until it wasn't.

It had turned on her, with cold, sharp needles prying into the things she thought she had mastered; working loose that practiced self control, then letting panic do the work. Panic, directed by an unseen hand.

And here she stood, having murdered her own ally.

Aq’qularr was dimly aware of someone yelling and the faint sound of a broken chuckle. But all she could focus on was the lifeless form in front of her, his blue blade slowly hitting the floor as his body twitched, soaking blaster shots even in death.

Thoughts and doubts and frustrations ran through her mind, screaming out to her and drowning out her senses. It felt like a sick dream, a nightmare where she was pulling her saber from Haraim’s lifeless corpse, twirling around in slow motion to strike at Jasuun, dodging and parrying the others until a golden blade sliced through her arm.

_So it wasn't a dream after all._

* * *

One was dead, the other was wounded and unable to fight, her mind a screaming, tangled mess of horror and grief - a bright beacon in the Force compared to the remaining three of her colleagues. They weren't far now, and Rakhan'aan already knew that his forces wouldn't be able to hold them back for much longer.

He could feel the weight of the geas on his soul, those immaterial chains that bound him to the altar of fate. For a moment, he wondered as to whether his reckoning had arrived; but after a moment of ponderance, he realised that no, that dark price lay much further into his future.

He would pay it in time, but first, he had other issues to attend to.

* * *

It didn't take long to get to reach the Bridge, despite being hounded by shadows within the Force. A dark presence seemed to devour the light as they went on, and despite the atrium being well lit everything seemed polarised and twisted.

Jasuun and Okara worked at the door in tandem, whilst Bastila concentrated. The Council had known of Revan’s uncanny knack for foresight, but there had been whispers of darker powers being wielded as well. The deaths of Haraim and Aq’qularr add weight to that, a puppetmaster’s shadow hanging over the maddened Bothan.

Sith sorcery was a rare art, but not unknown. And not infallible.

Bastila was spreading her awareness out through the Force, focusing on the thought of a shimmering golden light cast over her allies and uniting their efforts. Indeed, the two were working in the Bridge door with perfect symmetry.

She could feel that dark presence lurking beyond, alien and predatory. Beshadowed tendrils probed at the edge of her consciousness, but the battle mediation still held.

A thought crossed her mind, and Bastila tentatively sent out feelers of her own, trickling out from her shield. She brushed Revan’s mind and-

_Death. The last gasp of a trooper cut down with a burning blade, his agony lasting for a short but exhilarating second. His comrades during wildly as the Jedi bore down on them, one attempting to parry with a saber-resistant blade before being stunned, her wrist cleaved right off not a moment later. Thrown against the wall and left to succumb to shock over long and exquisite minutes. Another dies to a clean decapitation - a sensation followed by an impression of profound disappointment.  
_

_There's activity on the other decks as well; a bulkhead ruptures, followed by the blind terror of men in a futile struggle as they're pulled out into space. The fierce determination of the ship's gunners as they mow down Republic fighters and roaring fury as artillery blasts into capital ships.  
_

_He can feel it. He can feel it all. And he yearns for it._

She could feel that too. That somewhere amongst the monstrous revelry lay a sense of duty - a sense of duty that he longed to be relieved from. That he saw the horror in the souls of others and understood just what he had become.

-regretted it immediately.

Her hands shook and her heart raced, but all it did was fuel her resolve. Revan had to be stopped, and they both knew it.

_But why?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud crash - the Bridge door slamming to the deck, it's edges molten and soft.

* * *

The shadows gathered as the Jedi gave their ultimatum, their terms for a surrender that he couldn't allow to happen. They had their duty to the Republic, and he had his. For a moment he considered sharing with them the terrible truth that he had learnt, but in the end he knew that they would never believe him

He could still feel the white hot burns that cut down his troops, drawing upon the anguish they had felt in their final moments as a source of strength. The Jedi were still waiting for his response -so he replied.

A crack of thunder rang out as lightning arced towards the oldest - a scarred Rodian man with atonement in his heart. A fiery orange blade caught the storm, as emerald light swung towards Rakhan'aan’s head, parried by the scarlet saber in his left hand. The woman - shrouded in gold and eyes burning with determination - charged forward with her dualsaber in a flurry of blows that drove him back. But only for a moment.

He lunged towards the Rodian, blades cracking with dark energy. An overhead strike from his main hand left the alien open to the vicious purple blade in his right, slicing into the Jedi’s unarmoured thigh and waist - followed by a brutal surge in the force that cracked the man's neck and hurled the trisected corpse towards the other two.

That death spurred him on, and he charged towards the Twi’lek with the green saber - all mantras and focus despite the blood spray. Lightning surged from Sith to Jedi, hurling the latter towards the wall.

Sharp, hot pain bit into his arm as plasma cut through his sleeve and into flesh. He didn't stop, but savoured the moment nonetheless - blocking the next blow and preparing to-

The ship rocked violently, throwing Rakhan'aan off of his feet. An impact, dizziness, the cold durasteel of the floor. Why couldn't he get up?

* * *

The Sith lay helpless on the deck, blood soaking into the fabric of his hood. Bastila Shan could feel his life fading through the Force, heralded by shock as much as a sudden stained sense of what  _might_  have been panic. It was hard to tell, the chaos in his heart was an alien thing - awash with emotions that wasn't his own, whilst his own presence had seemed to gorge on it all without truly being affected.

But the shock was there, and something other than that; remorse.

She shut off her dualsaber and knelt by the fallen Sith, reaching out through the Force to the torn flesh and that fracture in his skull; knitting bone and blood vessels together before she was interrupted by another impact.

A gloved hand tried to push her away, and Bastila could sense something else now; realisation, a rising sense of desperation and panic. Refusal, backed only by the fading strength of a half-dead man.

_Let me die here._

It would be so easy, and the council wouldn't question it - the Sith would lose a leader, and an effective one at that, and she could still feel the torn matter within his skull. But leaving someone to die was not the Jedi way. It was not her way.

Bolstering her strength with the Force and reaching out to stabilise him, she carefully scooped him off the floor, one arm under him, and the other gesturing to the other surviving Jedi. The Sith - complete with armour - wasn't a light sort, and it took all of her strength not to fall beneath his weight. And even if he didn't put up what feeble resistance he could, she'd still be staggering.

The deck beneath them lurched again and Bastila knew that there wasn't time to get to the boarding shuttle. Careful but hurried steps left them off the bridge, through corridors and to an alternative destination - The escape pods.

They'd do. They  _had_  to. 

She strapped the fallen Sith to the couch and took her own seat as her companion manned the controls. This was it; make or break in an unshielded life raft amidst the chaos of battle.

Bastila’s attention turned once more to her captive, her hands pushing back the cowl, fingers working to gently pry away that mask. The Mandalorian steel fell away as the last catch was undone, revealing the face of the traitor she had been sent to confront.

In a distance, she could feel the escape pod jettison. But that hardly felt relevant.

Bastila wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Many would have found it easier to picture Darth Revan as a monster; a horrific and twisted mockery of humanity, that evil could settle into humanoid flesh and warp it beyond recognition. Or perhaps that such a being had discarded a mortal form, and had simply existed within the shadows of his own armour. Fanciful tales at most, she knew that, but they must have affected her somehow as the reality was not what she expected.

Dark, loose curls framed a sharp-boned face, and whilst he was pale and sickly looking; he didn't possess the corpselike pallor or withered, rotting appearance that she'd come to expect. Yet his eyes were an unnatural golden hue, a sharp contrast to the resignation she saw within them. Faint bruising and the spidery trails of burst capillaries marked the passage of lightning, but nothing more.

He was just a man.

A man who was quickly losing consciousness, not bothering to even fight to retain it. She reached out to stall it, to keep him awake - but all she could do was feel him embrace oblivion.

A glance to the viewport revealed a cruiser painted in Republic colours and the criss-cross of laserfire. They were almost there.

Bastila slipped into a trance, letting herself fall into the force. All sensation slipped away; the sound of her companion’s quiet chanting as he worked at the controls, the passing of the seat beneath her, and the hissing of the pod’s control thrusters. All melted away until there was nothing but the Force. Minds and fates intertwined with chances and probabilities, and she projected outwards to that storm of intent and action - coordinating, streamlining, and guiding.

This was her gift and her duty to others.


	2. Percipience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith, has been captured by the Jedi Order. Grievously injured, he is left in the care of Bastila Shan whilst the Jedi Council decide his fate.
> 
> Of course, nothing ever goes smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whilst the first chapter was largely action, this is where I start getting into the meat of the issue: the Council's decision to start fiddling around with a Sith Lord's head. It was rather fun to write the dynamics present within their collective. I didn't want to reduce them all to a monolithic group with the same principles and perspectives; instead, I wanted to make them into distinct individuals, each with their own agenda and ideological background. In short, they're *people* as much as they are important religious figures. And like all people, they have their hypocrisies and agendas.
> 
> But what I really wanted to capture was the feeling that not all was well in paradise; that there was dissent behind closed doors, and the cold, calculated decision to rob another sentient being of their free will. Both of which are conveniently kept from public view - both that of their subordinates, and also the Republic, the latter of which would likely push for a trial.
> 
> And as Zez-Kai-El points out, that move isn't exactly ethical.
> 
> The other thing that I want to look at is the Force bond, because it puts Bastila in a uniquely stressful situation that the game doesn't really show you that much of. She's soul-glued to an amnesiac Sith Lord and complete stranger, and she's vulnerable because of that. But because the reason why is a screaming spoiler, we don't really see her side of it - which makes her perspective particularly interesting to explore.
> 
> Importantly though, it's worth mentioning that I'm *not* going to use the Force bond as a plot device to base a ship on. It's an intrusive and unwanted violation of privacy that will have a profound impact on both their lives, which isn't conducive to a romantic relationship to begin with. (That and I'm really not a fan of soulmate stuff, but that's another rant entirely)

He lay on the bed, his chest gently rising and falling with every breath. Stripped of his armour and mask, the man known as  _Revan_  had a strange and unexpected vulnerability to him that had been utterly absent in both holorecordings and in combat.

That wasn’t enough to erase the memory of him carving Jasuun into pieces. That didn't hide the latent storm he caused in the force, and nor did it erase the fact that this man was a Dark Lord of the Sith. Bastila could feel that presence weighing in her mind, an unwanted intimacy with something dark and thoroughly alien. Even when his wounds weighed on her consciousness - his helplessness felt uncharacteristic of such a being - it ate away at her composure and her connection to the Light. Not by a substantial amount, but enough to sow doubt. 

So she sat in the infirmary, meditating as she kept watch. For every shadowy tendril that brushed her mind, she focussed on the serenity of her surroundings; the splash of water from the fountains, the warm breeze that blew through the unending plains, and the echo of slowly approaching footsteps. 

There was a soft knock on the door and she opened her eyes, focusing on the presence of a fellow knight.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Council have requested your presence. Now that the prisoner is in a stable condition, they'd like to start with the debriefing.” The other knight’s polite words heralded a flood of relief. Bastila felt a little petty, but if it meant a break from drowning in a pool of darkness, she'd happily sit through any number of Council sessions.

Pangs of guilt caught in her heart. A Jedi was to endure and confront hardships, not to run from them. Another reminder that she had much to learn; that this would only be one of many trials in her life.

“Thank you. Will you be taking over from here?” she asked, giving the comatose Sith a concerned yet professional glance for a moment.

“Yes. The council will be informed if any changes occur.”

Bastila stood, offering the other Jedi a short bow before heading towards the infirmary door. The pressure that had been weighing on her mind eased as she strode through the corridors, but she couldn't help but feel that there was something seriously wrong - that something was going to happen. But she couldn't pin down just  _what_.

She considered the matter rationally; she was on Dantooine, at the current seat of the Jedi Council's power. There was nothing that could pose an immediate threat to her or the Jedi on the planet.

That left the Sith.

Pausing a moment, she mentally swatted at that ominous cloud that lay on the edges of her consciousness. It  _had_  to be the connection to him, unsettling her usual equilibrium. She'd heard how the Darkness could warp a Jedi’s senses; leaving them open to insecurities and paranoia that wouldn't normally plague a mind free of its corruption. Perhaps this connection was affecting her?

Hopefully the Council would know how to handle the matter.

* * *

 

“There is one thing we must consider - regardless of his crimes against the Republic, there is much we don't know. His base of operations, for instance, and his shipyards. He disappeared into Wild Space and returned with an armada, of which grows faster than it can be driven back.” Kavar looked towards the others as he spoke, in particular at Masters Vrook and Zhar. The latter was notable in how  _forgiving_  he seemed. There was a softness to him, one that served him well in times of peace, but made him hesitant on times of war. It was visible in his tired eyes, framed by a saddened frown and an unconscious twitch of his lekku.

Vrook however was a different matter entirely. At the best of times he had been a stern figure - but those times had long passed. Nowadays he was an irate sort, a man who had lost control over what had once been certain. There was something more that he wasn't open with: a quiet vindictiveness that he was unwilling to be let go of.

“And just what are you expecting?” an accusatory statement rang out. “For a being so corrupted and far gone to openly renounce his allegiances? Have you forgotten Master Shim’s observations? No matter what bargain he tries to make, he won't be in it for the good of the Order or of the Republic.”

That voice belonged to Atris. If Vrook was quietly vindictive, then the Echani archivist backing him was positively acidic. Perhaps it was unseemly of Kavar to doubt her intentions, but he sometimes wondered if her zealotry was a guise for another agenda, yet he couldn't think of what - she'd been the most diligent of them all in her service to the Order.

“Don't forgot that mercy is a Jedi’s duty. He may be Sith, but that doesn't mean that he's lost the right to a fair trial. How we treat our prisoners still matters, regardless of how grim things are.” Zez-Kai-El interjected. Unlike Atris - whose dedication pushed for stricter additions to the Jedi Code - he was a more moderate figure, one concerned with the nature of one's actions rather than the ideals behind them. “We can't just abandon our principles because of an uncertain situation.”

Zhar nodded in favour of Zez-Kai-El’s words: “Sith or no, he still started as one of us, and we shouldn't be talking as if he's not. By doing that, we abandon one of our own to the Dark Side.”

“Yet he himself would see us as the enemy. He cast aside the Jedi mantle when he turned on the Republic - if not earlier, when he ignored that lessons of the Exar Kun Wars. He defied this Council, and divided the Order we seek to protect.” Vrook’s words had the facade of a disciplined elder, but the weight behind them spoke volumes more.

“He had the opportunity to stop once before and face justice but instead, he willingly ignored the chance he was given for atonement - even after he was warned that war would take him down a dark path, he chose to walk it. Add the chaos he’s caused, and it’s clear that he deserves to experience the full consequences of his actions.” Atris was backing up Vrook, adding a quiet tension in the air. Meanwhile, Vandar sat quietly - taking in all that each side had to say, his head bowed in quiet contemplation even as his ears perked up attentively. 

“Consider for a moment that he isn't just the Republic's problem - he's one of us, answerable to the Jedi Order as much as the Republic. Even if the Supreme Chancellor pushes for a verdict from the Inquisition, there is no guarantee that they are truly qualified to judge on matters concerning the Force.” Vrook was encouraged by Atris’s words. Vandar and Kavar nodded, and even Zhar - who was pushing for leniency - was giving a favourable lekku twitch in response.

The conversation was cut short by the sound of the door at the far end of the Council chambers opening. 

* * *

 

Bastila Shan walked into the Council chambers, heralded by the sound of oiled hinges and the distant twitter of birdsong. She glanced around the vaulted circular hall, suppressing her anxiety. The Council were already in session, it seemed, sat on the solid wooden chairs that followed the circumference of the room and framed by the immense tree that had grown in the courtyard beyond. Swallowing a sense of hesitation, she walked into the centre of the room and gave a deep bow to the assembled Council members, waiting to be addressed.

The parasite at the back of her mind still gnawed at the edges of her consciousness.

Vandar’s face lit up as he saw her approach, with a smile that had reassured and warmed her heart since her first, nervous days within the Order.

“Perhaps we ought to take a break from the current discussion. Bastila has arrived, and is no doubt able to offer the answers that we seek.” he gestured towards her as he spoke, guiding the attention of the other members of the Council. All eyes were on Bastila, and she couldn't help but notice the tension in the air.

She was a witness brought to testify in court, though to what she really couldn't say. Yet despite not being in trial, that anxiety grew - a feeling that  _something_  was going to happen, an occurrence that was fast approaching inevitability. 

“Padawan, you have been called before this Council to report on both the events that led to the capture of our wayward apostate, and also to report on his current condition. You have been assigned to the infirmary, have you not?” despite the formal language, there was always something warm and reassuring about Vandar’s voice, but she couldn't get that lingering  _feeling_  that something was about to happen out of her head.

“Yes. After I was given a clean bill of health, I was assigned to the infirmary to both keep an eye on the prisoner and his condition.” She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “So far, his condition is stable, though he hasn't yet woken. It's clear that there's severe brain trauma - It can be healed, but that will take time.” 

Zhar raised a hand, interrupting: “What of the encounter on the flagship? Was there no opportunity to negotiate?”

“No - even before we encountered him he attacked us - he controlled Aq’qularr through the Force - and when we did try to talk to him, he didn’t say a thing. Though…” Bastila trailed off, thinking back to the brief contact on the ship.

“Please continue, at your own pace.”

“I made contact with his mind shortly before we stormed the bridge. It was  _strange_  -  and I don’t really know how to describe it. I’d call it agony - madness even - yet he seemed to want it, that he was reaching out to devour it. But under that, there was something else; _remorse_.”

Zhar’s expression was mixed. At first she thought it was surprise and perhaps shock, but there was something else - hope, perhaps? It struck Bastila as a bit strange, though it was difficult to say when some buried instinct was screaming at her to run.

“There’s more - something happened when I captured him. It’s strange and I can’t pinpoint when it occurred, but no matter what, I can sense him through the Force.”

“That’s hardly a surprise, even here he stands out as a knot of darkness amidst the Light” Kavar looked at her, brows furrowed. “Just where are you going with this?”

“It’s not just sensing - it’s more than that. A connection, and one that I’ve tried to sever but with no luck. He’s a presence in my mind, albeit a dormant one.”

Kavar looked intrigued by all of this, though the look on Atris’s face was less encouraging. Vandar however seemed to be taking it in his stride, and the look on his face hinted at the ideas hatching within his mind.

“You mentioned his injuries, just how severe are they?”

“Well, currently he’s been unconscious for the last few days. He suffered a severe concussion and the the healers say that without treatment, he risks significant impairment. There’s also a good risk of memory loss - but they’re not willing to say whether or not that’s permanent. Either way, he’s going to take time before he recovers enough to stand trial.”

There were furtive looks passed amongst the council members before Vandar nodded to Bastila. “There is much to meditate on, but that will be all we need to know for now. You may return to your duties, though I advise you to meditate on this bond you appear to have developed.”

“Forgive me if this seems out of place, but isn’t focussing on something like that a risk? Revan is mired so deeply in the Dark Side that it seems ill-advised.” Bastila asked, noticing the piercing glare that Atris shot at Vandar - though he simply smiled in return.

“All Jedi must face the Darkness, be it in themselves, or in others. For some it hides in offers of bribery and corruption during an investigation, for others it is facing doubts and the shadows of the mind, and for some, it lies within the heart of a fallen Sith. All are suitable trials for an aspiring Knight, as long as that Knight is a cautious one.”

His statement took Bastila by surprise; the fact that he’d authorised a Padawan to not only apprehend a Sith Lord, but had considered her success in doing so as the first part of her trials astounded her. Yet she found herself opening her mouth to ask about the necessity of  _studying_  the strange bond between her and the Sith, pondering over whether it was of relevance to the Council’s plans.

She stopped, noticing that Vandar’s kindly smile had turned into one of amusement at her surprise. If it hadn’t been relevant to the Council’s plans, then Vandar wouldn’t have instructed her to study it further.

“That will be all, Padawan, you may return to your duties until called for.”

Bastila gave another bow before turning to leave. There was a little explosion of giddiness and pride in her heart as she considered the prospect; all her training was leading towards  _knighthood_  at last, that finally she would stand with the Jedi Order as something more than an apprentice. Yet she took a deep breath and focussed elsewhere - this wasn’t just about her, this was about the Jedi, the Republic, and the good of others. 

Still, that pride lingered on, and she could feel a cold tendril of  _doubt_  reach into her mind, nourished by that sudden flutter of emotion. And that doubt was still accompanied by the lingering sense of apprehension.  _Something_  was going to happen.

* * *

 

As Bastila left the Council Chambers, Vrook eyed Vandar like a hawk, but didn’t speak until the doors had shut behind her and the sound of footsteps had retreated down the corridor.

“Just what are you thinking, exposing one of our most skilled apprentices to a  _creature_  such as that? Has it still not occurred to you how dangerous it is?” 

Kavar sighed, shaking his head. “I have to admit that despite the florid language, I second Vrook’s concerns. She might be skilled enough to have faced a Sith Lord in combat, but that doesn’t prevent her from being susceptible to his manipulations. Even in his wounded state, I am concerned that you might be offering the Darkness an inch.”

“Opportunities are never without risk. What Bastila has experienced might be of use to us. This bond of hers ought demands investigation. Besides, even if he has been a threat in the past, he cannot defend himself in his current state - much less make an attempt on the mind of another Jedi.”

“What are you implying?” There was worry in Zhar’s voice once more.

“What I am suggesting is a thought experiment of a sort; this bond might affect Bastila, yes, but there’s also the possibility that it goes  _both_  ways. That with practice  _she_  could affect our sleeping Darth, and that through her, we might be able to glean some information from his mind.”

“You’re talking as if he’d volunteer. He’s a  _Sith_ , if you’ve not forgotten. She said it herself, he devours the suffering and darkness of others - that’s not the sort of being that turns around and decides to come back to the Jedi Order. We know already that the Dark Side is a cancer, and you’re risking yet another of the Order if you let-” 

“Patience Vrook, as I said, this is a thought experiment. Besides, there’s no reason that he has to  _remain_  Sith.”

“Explain.”

“The Force is already known to be capable of affecting minds - by all accounts, Revan himself was more than adept at breaking the minds of others. It’s not unfeasable to suggest that it’s possible to use it in a more precise manner; to trim away the corruption and his excesses, and leave his mind intact and untainted.”

“Are you saying that we could return him to the Light?” Atris’s eyes went wide. Not from shock, but from the possibilities. There was eagerness in her voice, perhaps more than was appropriate.

“Perhaps. As I said, it’s merely hypothetical at this stage, and there’s no saying just what use this might be.”

Kavar shook his head. “You can’t seriously place this duty on a Padawan, however talented. Whatever knowledge she has will not be enough to alter the mind of a trained Sith.”

“She can’t. But what about someone else - someone more pliable and  _innocent_  and  _untainted_  by Revan’s actions and experience. If you take out what we know we don’t need and leave what could be useful, we might give him a shot at atonement.” Atris peered at Vandar, before glancing at Vrook for approval. Vrook was currently silent, fingers tented as he mulled over the matter.

“Or you might have a tool to use - a brainless one at that. Tell me, what difference is there between us and the Sith if we’re willing to be so  _cold_  in how we deal with our enemies? There’s no atonement for a man that doesn’t even know of his own crimes.” Zez-Kai-El shook his head in disappointment and disgust. “You can’t seriously consider this.” 

Meanwhile, Zhar looked pained. That worried look he’d carried throughout the meeting had intensified into something decidedly saddened. Vrook caught his eye, then glanced between Vandar and Kavar as if asking for permission.

“You could have your old apprentice back, Zhar. A second chance that few ever get.” 

* * *

 

Bastila couldn’t help but note that nagging  _certainty_  that had haunted her since she had left the infirmary. Despite focusing outwards - turning her perceptions to the echoes of footsteps, chirping birdsong, and the gentle sound of the breeze - she couldn’t truly avoid it. 

The inevitability struck her as poignant, but she had never been one for visions or foresight; that had been the purview of seers and consulars, and her talents had always lain with reaching out to others rather than in gazing into the Force itself.  _Practical_ , her tutors had called her, with her affinity for guiding the actions of others and staunching their wounds. Practical, but too anchored in the present to dwell on the future.

Which left the bond.

Pausing for a moment, she turned her attention inwards - aiming her attention at that festering presence grafted to her soul. Her mind ran across raw nerves and bloody sinew, crossing over the bond and into-

_The Council were gathered around a prone form, all of them deep in meditation. The room was cast in blinding contrast, yet the light was growing, the shadows drowning in it. Wrongness. Recoil. Burning oblivion._

Bastila stumbled back, leaning against the smooth stone wall as she returned to her senses. Her fingers tingled with a familiar warmth, yet that strange sense of revulsion felt like nothing but a distant memory. 

 Strange.

* * *

 

Revan was still inert when Bastila reached the infirmary. That now-familiar vulnerability still remained, though now he seemed gently disturbed, as if in the grasp of an unnerving dream. Part of her wondered whether he was aware of the vision she’d witnessed, but given what she knew of his condition that possibility was an unlikely one. 

Returning to the Sith’s side also caused the weight on her mind to intensify, muttering subtle whispers to her doubts and fears. It would have been oh so easy to accept them; to  _believe_  that this trial would be too much for her, that all it would take is one small slip and that she’d be cast down into the void, to be embraced by a darkness so crushing and impenetrable that her body would crack, and every spark of light would burst free of her mechanical corpse. 

_Crushed in the same mental prison as the others, hidden away in a forgotten corner of her psyche to be cracked open and freed. Yet it wasn’t the Darkness that kept her so broken, merely an emptiness - a denial of something long thought defeated._

No.

That wasn’t her.

Bastila reached into the Force, letting its currents wash over her. It was a gentle thing; as natural as breathing, and as refreshing as a natural spring. Picturing one arm submerged in its flow, anchored into the Light, she closed her eyes and took another tentative foray across the bond. 

* * *

 

 

_Everything felt cold, but there was no discomfort; even the blood-slicked stone under his bare feet didn’t elicit any panic nor distress, merely leaving an impression of the intricate channels carved into the smooth granite. The ground below leeched the warmth and life from all it touched, leaving only a sense of numbness in its wake._

 

_Pain however was a constant companion, but no matter how sharp and real it felt, it never once hindered him. Instead it felt like the touch of an old friend or a past lover - gentle almost, and utterly familiar. Yet it wasn’t his, not that there was much difference any longer._

 

_Fading minds brushed against his in the Force. Some of them had questions; seeking the reasons for their deaths, asking what any of this nightmare could achieve. Others held only loyalty, a devotion that wasn’t wholly natural yet burnt as passionately as the stars themselves. And then there were those who had nothing - only emptiness, as if their souls had been hollowed out even before their blades crossed their throats. Yet as those minds faded, as the agony from broken limbs and torn flesh faded; the Force convulsed violently, consuming every last light in the tomb._

 

_And fate itself_ snapped _._

* * *

 

Bastila came to, shaking. She had to catch herself, almost falling from the chair as she extricated herself from the tangled mass of darkness. She wretched, only just realising that the rising nausea was her own and not the thorns embedded in her soul, coiled around her mind so impossibly tight. A death grip on her essence. 

It was there, it was a burden bound to her with impossible chains; but it wasn’t her. 

She took a few deep breaths, looking at the comatose Sith. He was undisturbed by her intrusion, whilst she was left with the fading yet very real sensation of blood on her feet. 

It raised questions; questions that others had undoubtedly asked in their last moments.  _Why?_  Why had those people died? And what for? 

Fear and revulsion shot through her like shards of splintered ice. For a moment she could picture the vacant look on Aq’qularr’s face, the broken laughter as she pulled her weapon from Haraim’s corpse. Had she seen it too? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for reading! As always, commentary, critique, and discussion is not only welcome but encouraged, and I hope that you're all looking forward to when I can post chapter 3.


	3. Vastation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vastation: an archaic theological term used to refer to a violent spiritual purge of either an individual or an object. The word implies the destruction of qualities considered evil or impure, with the intent to redeem or otherwise deliver the subject from their sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended to cover these events in the previous chapter, however I hadn't anticipated it to get as long as it did - and I'm quite happy that I made this it's own chapter. Shoutout to jon_quixote for the suggestion to make it so, as if I hadn't I don't think that I would have had the opportunity to go into the same amount of detail as I have here.
> 
> Once more it's fun to get into the heads of the Jedi Council and explore not just their actions, but also the decisions and feelings behind them. If anything, I want to paint everyone involved here as *people* - not wise Jedi Masters, not terrible Sith Lords, simply people. Flawed, questionable people making questionable choices. that in the end, the theology, the titles, and the authority means nothing without that human aspect. And that human aspect makes the worst of decisions all the more terrible; evil is a choice, as much as good is. It's easy to dress such things up in metaphysical terms, because of how that externalises such choices - evil seems less scary and more abstract when it's branded as antithetical to nature or the human condition. Such framing turns it into something that someone is *affected* by, rather than *does*, which is something I'm intending to avoid.
> 
> The other thing is that making this a separate chapter allowed me to have the opportunity to explore who Rakh was, and some hint to his motivations. He's a character I enjoy writing, but his particular mindset is a bit of a tightrope walk; I want him to have the capacity to be monstrous, but I also want to show that he's *more* than that. That he's a sympathetic antivillain who has a *point* beyond what seems like callousness, and that he's a dark mirror to the Jedi who - in essence - created him.
> 
> There is also a mild spot of Jedi Sandwich after Vandar's thoughts. Nothing hugely explicit, but I'm tossing the warning out in case you're not into that sort of thing and/or don't want to get in trouble for reading mild threesomes in public. Or Atris being fucking creepy.

_He looked up at the strange being that had approached him, frozen. He didn't bolt, despite all his instincts screaming for him to do so. Maybe it was the strangeness of the person he was staring back at, all bald with two large prehensile tentacles dangling from the back of his skull - humanoid, yes, but certainly not human. The strange man was speaking to him, but not in any language that he could recognise; yet there was no intent radiating from him, only a sense of calm and gentle concern._

_He was so strange, so unlike the ones back at the village. So friendly and unafraid of him._

_Rakhan'aan stepped out of the undergrowth he'd been hiding in, curiosity overcoming the fear and timidity that he had fallen back on for survival. The other being eased into a slow crouch, putting himself on the child’s level and offered his hand._

* * *

 

Zhar recognised the memory, it was an old one - a precious one for both of them. He remembered bundling the small human up in a spare robe, and carrying his frail, malnourished form onto the ship. Rakhan'aan hadn't understood a word of Basic, but Zhar could feel the sense of loss, fear, and uncertainty that clouded his mind. It would have been wrong to have left a child out there like that, regardless of whether he was Force sensitive or not.

With sadness in his heart and a silent apology, Zhar plucked the memory from his former padawan’s mind. Regrets stirred inside of him - an objection to the loss of _all_ that Rakhan'aan had been, and he promised to grant the Sith a happier, kinder past.

* * *

 

_The corridors stretched onwards and onwards in near-darkness, lit only by by the faint light of the arcane machinery above. Little status warnings flashed on ancient holodisplays in a language that had gone unspoken in milennia, and the air seemed charged and alive somehow. Pressurised gas hissed deep within the structure itself, in slow, drawn out breaths that - when partnered with the deep hum of machinery - left the impression of mechanical lungs. A rhythmic pulse rose from the depths, a hypnotic thing that rose through floors of darkened alloys and inert circuitry._

_The beast slumbered, its energies inert. Waiting._

_Doors slid open at the end of the narrow corridor, their ancient locking mechanisms contracting at the slightest touch through the force. A high vaulted chamber opened up behind them, pillars - no, conduits, pipes even - rose through the floor, branching and intertwining across the walls. At the heart of it stood a lone pedestal, holding a lone pyramidical holocron in a repulsor field._

* * *

 

Vandar frowned at the vision before him. The architecture he'd seen was unlike anything in known space, and its aura - a dark, malevolent thing - was nothing short of unnatural. He brushed off the sense of deja vu, knowing it to be Rakhan'aan’s, and considered the possible _use_ of this information.

Whatever it was had been some manner of alien facility, though its nature was unknown to him as of yet. There was more, but so much had been hidden under a veil of physical trauma and the white light of concussion.

With a deft touch, he buried this memory deep within the fallen Sith’s mind, to return later as he healed and a greater pattern fell into place.

* * *

 

_Mira was smiling, at him, her body warm against his. Her laughter echoed in both his ears and mind; and he could feel every fluttering heartbeat, every breath she took._

_Intimacy was something denied to Jedi; be it emotional or physical. It was a stricture that had never felt right to him, not when the lives of others so often brushed against his mind. To remain detached from the hopes, loves, and sorrows of the world felt as if he was trying to wall off his very soul from the rest of existence._

_But not anymore. He'd learnt that now - how impossible such things were._

_A delicate yet strong hand rested on his cheek, brushing back his hair as her legs wrapped around his waist. The light brushing of lips against her shoulder and a hand around her waist as Alek cradled her from behind. Rakhan'aan could feel every twitch, every gasp, every slow exertion as if it were his own._

_Mira burnt strongly in his mind, a warmth and conviction brighter than the stars, heart flickering with hope and desire. She felt safe in their arms, a trust first forged in battle and refined by time. Her consciousness brushed against his in return - part teasing, part curious about the gift that he'd spent so long thinking of as a weakness. So he opened up to Mira, sharing every feeling, every sensation as he worked into her. Sharp moans escaped her throat as Aleck’s consciousness joined the two; a protective feeling that seemed to down out the world around them, leaving them carefree, shielded from the chaos and the pain that war had brought. There was laughter again, but it was hard to say who it belonged to at this point - boundaries between individuals had melted away, leaving only something mutual and caring._

_He loved them both. He loved them in all senses of the word._

* * *

 

Atris’s eyes narrowed in fury at what she found. That smile, that laughter, and that raven hair - Mira wasn't Rakhan'aan’s to claim, to defile, to _enjoy_. Jealousy and a deep sense of possession tugged inside her as she went over the memory again and again; following Rakh's fingertips as they traced every curve and contour of Mira’s flesh, slipping deep within her and eliciting a dire hunger in the archivist’s own body that she kept hidden from her compatriots. Mira was _hers_ , and hers alone, yet this… fiend had known her in ways that Atris would never dare admit she wanted.

He was scum, a deceiver, a temptation that had wormed its way into the soul of a paragon of the Order and corrupted her beyond all telling. Everything she saw disgusted her, and yet…

Atris tore the memory from Rakhan'aan’s mind, leaving careless tatters of emotion in its wake - so enamoured by unrequited and hypocritical passions that she didn't notice how the Sith’s affections merged back into his consciousness.

All she cared for was the stolen memory of a woman who had fallen from a pedestal long broken.

* * *

 

 _The planet below was wreathed in fire and screams - or so it felt through the Force. He could feel the moment that the_ Liberty's Flight _cracked apart; air torn from his lungs, hot plasma against his flesh, and bones shattered by the blast wave. Then… nothing. Two hundred souls trickling away into oblivion._

_Rakhan'aan came to, shaking, his hands and knees pressing hard into the cold deckplates. He was dimly aware of being lifted to his feet by firm hands, concern biting into his consciousness like a blunt knife. The pain and terror still lingered, and the fury of battle - the fury of his own men - left him trembling with adrenaline._

_Adrenaline and potential _.__

__It lingered there, in his hands and fingertips; a quiet whisper amongst the roar of battle a soft lover's murmur in his ear, offering release from his torment._ _

__If only he would give in._ _

_His blurred vision cleared, and for a moment he swore that sparks had flickered between his fingertips. He could hear a voice - Alek - but the world he lived in felt distant. It was an echo against a cacophony of blaster burns and lacerations._

_He thought he caught mention of a boarding party, but he couldn't hear anything more for the screaming._

_Alek lowered him into a chair, the soft padding against a shattered spine, the phantom of a durasteel beam imposing him through the heart. Fingers coiled around the armrests in a desperate attempt to give himself something real _to centre himself on._ _

__Rakhan'aan wasn't sure how long he was like that, but something grew _amidst the chaos, something primal screeching into his pain-drugged mind to get up, to_ fight _, because whatever was heading here was out for blood. He could taste it in his mouth, feel that lust for death and glory in his heart; forcing him to his feet as the blasterfire rang in the corridor outside._ _ _

___He let it carry him forward, lightsabers in hand - a destructive potential building up in his body, leaving his fingertips numb and tingling._ _ _

___The first Mandalorian was crushed against the ceiling, neck snapped at a right angle - a brief spike of agony that faded as fast as it came. He sidestepped the shots that followed, and reached out with his left hand, that lethal potential running down his arm…_ _ _

___Screams followed, joining the chorus in his mind as flesh cooked and melted _, muscles convulsing violently even after the men's hearts had stopped. He could feel the surge of energy as it left his fingertips, leaping to the Mandalorians in an agonising embrace as their lives were slowly burnt away. Yet despite it all, he felt a sense of cold relief; that he was no longer drowning in an ocean of torment, merely treading the surface._ _ _ _

____And Alek stood there, eyes full of concern and awe at the weapon _his friend had unleashed.__ _ _ _

* * *

Kavar pitied the unconscious Sith. He understood the burden of leadership that the man had taken upon himself, but even though Rakhan'aan’s empathy had been known to the Jedi Council, none of them had expected it to run so deeply and to such a visceral extent. Everything that Rakhan'aan had experienced had felt just as real as the air in his lungs and the pillow he knelt upon.

Yet what struck him was how _easily_ the dark side came to him. That despite his struggles, his upbringing, and Jedi training, he had given into it even before the end of the war. Rakhan'aan’s willingness to use such a brutal weapon disturbed him, even in the face of his own pragmatic leanings. Kavar - like any other Jedi - knew that even in the heart of battle, one must never give into the Dark Side, regardless of whatever solution it might use as bait.

Eyes closed, he pruned away the memory with a careful hand and a stoic heart, consigning it to the same void the crew of _Liberty's Flight_ had been.

* * *

 

_It had taken less than an instant. They thought that the Mandalorians had routed, they thought that it was over._

_Then the sky darkened as the mangled bes’uliik tore through the air towards them. Fires raged from the port engine, and it's claws were a tangled mess of molten steel. It's rider was missing an arm, screeching something unholy as the ruined war droid homed in on it's targets._

_The next thing Rakhan'aan knew was impact - a body against his, and the soft earth beneath him. Alek’s arms wrapped around him as the shockwave from the impact tossed them aside, lives snuffed out beneath the mechanical beast’s smouldering husk._

_Alek let go of him, his short dark hair now caked with mud. He stood up, offering Rakh his hand - quickly taken by the fallen Jedi._

_Rakhan'aan peered through the Force - first scanning for further threats, then for…_

_He was right there. A young human with ginger hair and a face spotted with freckles. Both legs had been severed by debris, and shrapnel punctured his abdomen. The shock was palpable - as were the wounds of others._

_This time Rakhan'aan wasn't overcome. He hadn’t been for some time now. Instead, that suffering felt natural _\- not dulled by any stretch of the imagination, but a part of him that he'd accepted and embraced. Every spark of pain, every ache and twinge; they brought an awareness that he would never have known had he not sacrificed the purity of the Light._ _

__He walked towards the dying Jedi, reaching out with his mind and cradling his consciousness. Shock and adrenaline had numbed him, and Rakh could barely feel the cold mud slick against his tattered robes. He knelt by the Jedi’s side, removing his mask and taking the dying man's hands in his own._ _

__He'd gotten used to the feeling of death as an ambient thing; something that happened around him, but never something he had truly savoured for himself._ _

__The young man's fear had melted as he looked up into Rakhan'aan’s golden eyes, his trembling fingers resting in the other knight’s gloved hands. The sensation of the soft leather barely registered as the chill of blood loss set in, but he smiled as Rakhan'aan’s mind met his own. He was dying, yes, but he wasn't dying alone. And for that, he was thankful._ _

__Rakh smiled slightly - reassurance, mixed with something hungry and inhuman. Yet he still cared enough to mask that need with a sense of gratitude; the other Jedi had been willing to help, to try and stop the chaos. That he had made a difference whilst he could._ _

__And as the Jedi’s essence dissipated into the Force, Rakhan'aan stayed with him. Yet the truth was harsh - neither grief nor loss was felt._ _

* * *

 

Vrook shook his head, holding back tears. He'd tried to convince his apprentice not to go; that it wasn't the Jedi’s place, that it was too dangerous for a padawan. Yet Cielowyn had been taken by the destruction that the Mandalorians had wrought, and the words of a man who had sworn to give everything he had in the service of the Republic. Revan had argued that it was the Jedi’s duty to protect others, and that the Council had turned their backs on their charge.

And then Revan had watched Cielowyn die, feigning whatever comforts he could give as he felt a young life slip through his grasp. He'd taken Cielowyn from Vrook twice over.

Vrook told himself that his apprentice was one with the Force now, but he couldn't swallow his grief entirely. In a fit of resentment, he scratched at the memory, clawing it raw and bloody from Rakhan'aan’s mind.

* * *

 

  _Regret._

 _It didn’t cut like the steel of a torturer’s blade, or burn like fire against bare flesh. Instead, it undermined everything, like a single, key mistake in the foundations of a building. It was a constant nagging_ thing _that threw everything off by what seemed to be a fraction at first, but grew greater and greater further down the line. He allowed himself to feel it, regardless._

_Remorse._

_It kept him centred in a way, that off-kilter sense that subtly reminded him that what he was doing was inherently monstrous. Even as he wormed his way into the minds of captive Jedi, freeing emotions and desires long left repressed, allowing them the freedom so long denied to them that its fulfilment felt like madness; it reminded him that he was still fighting for something. For hope. For an ideal. For a better future._

_Futures._

_The Jedi would say that fate was constantly in motion, that it was impossible to truly say what the outcome of events were. Yet such a viewpoint came from minds with a stunted,_ incomplete _perception of the Force. They cut off their connections to others, insulated their minds from the world, and ultimately experienced nothing. And fate was nothing without connections; all the pieces and variables interacting and falling into place, all the choices, accidents, and reactions forming branching chains of events that would eventually collapse down into a single eventuality._

_Changing fate was merely the matter of following those chains of events backwards, tracking the variables that piled up and up and up, until one found a point where even the slightest change could alter the eventual outcome. A spanner in the works of destiny’s machine._

_Once upon a time, he’d seen only events and planned around those, turning them into advantages. Now Rakhan’aan could see so much more._

_Rebellion in the streets of a Coreworld city, the inhabitants fighting back invaders with whatever weapons they can muster. A man dies of a heart attack in his dreams, freeing his son from his oppressive rule. Billions march, clockwork soldiers both biological and mechanical. A young man with sandy hair staring into the setting suns, dreaming of worlds he never knew he would visit. A woman in the guise of a goddess, the lethal grace of her dance cutting through a void in which his visions cannot penetrate; crowned by a halo, a living planet lost to the void._

_Possibilities._

_Like all things, it could be toppled. Sometimes with effort, sometimes with inaction. And that was the thought that kept him going; of how apathy would leave a man, a world, a galaxy to pass into ashes. To see oblivion and simply_ wait _for its arrival was insanity, even if one’s own life was finite. There would always be others, whose lives mattered to other lives who mattered to other lives._

__If his sacrifices saved them, then what had been lost had been worth it - no matter what chaos was yet to come,_ life _would prevail. A bulwark against entropy and stillness and death itself._ _

_Rakhan’aan smiled._

_Eventualities._

_They called him a monster, a madman, and an apostate. The Senate would demand his blood if they had the chance, lapping it off the floor beneath his butchered corpse as a paltry reparation for his crimes. Yet he could accept that, his own life - his own service - in exchange for the fates of others was an inevitability that he’d come to accept. They would never understand why, yet that outrage grounded him and_ reminded _him that it was his burden to carry._

_If only one man carried a burden, then others would be spared its weight. And sometimes, that meant becoming something other than a man._

* * *

 

Zez-Kai-El shook his head free of the cobwebs that had tangled around his mind, little webs of possibilities and probabilities that made the world seem all that much smaller - yet all the more confusing. Rakhan’aan’s war had a purpose, but as to _what_ that was eluded him; whether it was hidden in that interwoven chaos or simply madness didn’t matter, he couldn’t find answers anywhere. Only a sense of duty, a warped growth that was once a Jedi oath of stewardship.

In a sense he saw an inkling of himself in Rakhan’aan - that regret, the realisation that he was to commit a horrific act for the greater good. He found himself hesitating, finding himself at a turning point. Glancing at the other members of the Council, he took in their reactions; Zhar’s sorrow, Vandar’s perceptiveness, Atris’s narrowed eyes, Kavar’s stoicism, and Vrook’s grief.

The soul of a man lay in his hands, a delicate and twisted thing.

In his mind’s eye, he could see their eventual questions if he stopped now. This was the Council’s decision as a whole, and if he didn’t continue, no doubt one of the others would take the matter out of his hands entirely.

He coiled that memory - that delicate strand of consciousness - around his hand, twisting it around his fingers like a strand of yarn. And with a gentle yet firm tug, it snapped away from Rakhan’aan’s mind - dissipating into the ether. No longer any more real than the figments of imagination it would be replaced by.

* * *

 

“We’ll alter his memories. When he wakes, he won’t be Darth Revan, he’ll be someone else. It’ll give him a fresh start, but he’ll need guidance - there may be so much touched by the Darkness that there’s no saying how much we’ll have to remove”

Bastila’s head swam at the thought. That sickening feeling from her earlier brush with his mind still lingered in her gut, a sense of near-instinctive revulsion of which she couldn’t quite bury. Even with meditation it showed no signs of fading - and the Force bond didn’t help in the slightest.

It must have shown on her face, because Vandar had given her a warm and reassuring smile. A show of confidence in her abilities.

“Believe me, we would not have given this duty to you if we didn’t believe in your abilities. This may be a trying time for you, but the Council has faith that you will overcome the obstacles ahead.”

She opened her mouth in protest, but what would she say? That this wasn’t the Jedi way? That she considered this to be a mockery of the very concepts of compassion and mercy that she had been raised to believe in? That he should be handed to the Republic courts? (Where - she realised - he’d be imprisoned or executed in short order)

The answer was simple in her mind: it wasn’t her place to question the will of the Council. If their collective wisdom had found a way to save a soul and end a war, then so be it. Yet it didn’t seem right - the idea itself seemed more worthy of the Sith they opposed, not the principles they upheld. Going into the mind of another and _changing_ the things that made them who they were?

That seemed wrong. But again, it wasn’t the place of a padawan to question the Council. There was so much more she had to learn.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You will watch over and guide him as he recovers; monitoring him for any sign that he might be _remembering_ anything important. With his current condition and our latest examinations, it is hard to say how coherent the memories recovered will be. We intend to leave in the things that seem significant - the details that might lead to discoveries will be buried in his psyche for you to coax out as he regains his faculties.” Vandar paused for a moment, eliciting a nod from Bastila to indicate that she followed his line of thought. “Call them visions, tell him that the Force has a plan for the two of you.”

“And what if he objects? If he reverts to his former self?”

“We plan on instilling a level of trust and reliance that will make him more manageable. And there are other safeguards planned that will limit any damage should Revan recall more of his past than is intended.”

Bastila didn’t say anything, but that unease had grown noticeably more.

“You must understand that we do this only out of the direst of necessities, and that if the situation wasn’t so severe we would have done things by ordinary means.”

* * *

Time crawled on outside of the Council Chambers, and the birds sang. Bastila could only catch glimpses of stray thoughts, but for a moment, she thought she saw more.

_Herself._

_Her face, her words; delivering a demand that Revan stand down and surrender to the Republic. He’d said nothing, but in the Force she could feel something else._

_A plea._

_A plea to stop him, to end his conquest so that he no longer had to bear that burden. To let him rest, or to face judgement. There was no defence for his actions, nor a plea for mercy - only the desire for someone to end him before his grim duty forced him onwards._

Then it was gone, and the darkness weighing upon that bond had faded. Yet Bastila couldn’t help that she’d forgotten something important, but all she was left with was the sound of the fountains and birdsong. A gentle breeze stirred the grass below her feet, and the sun shone brightly above - tranquility, perhaps. Or the calm at the eye of a hurricane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & critique are welcome, I'm very interested in seeing people's thoughts about this one - I'm not the best gauge of how my own writing and characterisation comes off, so I'm rather interested in what you guys have to say about it. I hope you're looking forward to chapter 4, where we actually meet our protagonist. Our unfortunate and utterly clueless protagonist.
> 
> No mandalorians were harmed in the making of this fic


	4. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awakening, and a rude one at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually pretty uncertain about this chapter. I enjoy writing action sequences, but when you try and protract them into longer threads it gets a little awkward. I wasn't sure that it fit together seamlessly enough - and given that Ithar isn't (usually) the most verbose of my characters, padding it out with dialogue wasn't really an option at this stage. I'm going to have to work on portraying his body language, because that's going to be more of a *thing* for him.
> 
> I also compressed the Endar Spire sequence down a good bit too; even if I do like good fight scenes, a blow-by-blow retelling of what's essentially a tutorial level would just bog down the story. Chopping it up and picking out the more important parts was a must.
> 
> This isn't to say that the chapter is without insight; there are little moments of reflection regarding Ithar. He's a man of contradictions and lies of omission - not that he's aware of it. And that's one of his conflicts, that he cannot recognise how much of a patchwork individual he is for a good while - he's programmed *not* to be able to do so. Likewise, I'm looking forwards to writing more about Carth. He's interesting in that you see a struggle between his hypervigilance and the fact that he does realise that on some level that his reactions are disproportionate and even harsh towards others. It's in line with a cluster of PTSD symptoms that aren't commonly portrayed in media, and throughout the game he feels like he's working to cope with that.
> 
> Another note is that I'm doing away with the fake swearing that litters the SW franchise like free papers on the London Underground. I don't feel like it serves any other purpose than to satisfy a publisher's censors, and because it's so disconnected from any of the worldbuilding it just feels awkward. In short; let Revan say fuck.

A shudder jolted him awake. Eyes slowly blinked open, gazing into the vague white blur as everything shook again, almost throwing him from the small bunk he was curled up on. That harsh glare sharpened into focus - a stark room, a couple of beds, and a tall blonde fellow who was preoccupied with grabbing his shoulder and trying to pull him out of bed. He was saying  _ something _ , but he was too dazed to make out what.

Pain burst through his hands and knees as he finally fell from the bed in an uncoordinated mess, the room swimming for a moment before his senses finally sharpened.

“-ake? Get up, quickly, we’re under attack - it’s the Sith, they’ve found us!” The other man was still tugging on him like a ragdoll, armed with a tunic and a pair of trousers - pulling the former garment over the dazed man’s head with all the frantic energy of a startled cat.

“Wait - what’s going on?” He resisted the urge to flail around as one of his arms narrowly avoided going through the collar, instead finding its way into the correct sleeve.

“We’re on the Endar Spire in orbit over Taris. You’re Ithar Kal’tana, right? That smuggler we picked up on the last leg of the journey? Given how things look out there, I‘m hoping that you can find a way to smuggle us off this ship before it goes down in flames.” Ithar’s other arm was next, unceremoniously pushed into the other sleeve before an ill-fitting pair of pants were tugged over his feet and legs. The older man quickly tossed a jacket into the confused grifter’s arms, approaching him with shoes brandished and a deadly serious frown - as if their lives depended on Ithar’s ability to regain any semblance of hand-eye coordination within the next few minutes.

“Taris, Spire; who are you? Why are-?” Ithar stared at his sartorial assailant with wild eyes, barely processing anything other than his newly-acquired footwear and the way the room shook from yet another turbolaser impact.

“I’m Trask Ulgo, one of the soldiers assigned to escort Bastila Shan. We work opposite shifts, so I wouldn’t normally run into you, but it looks like today’s less than normal.” He quickly dragged Ithar to his feet, fingers digging into his upper arm. Ithar however was still clinging to the battered leather jacket, not quite making the connection between the garment and himself.

Trask simply gave him an exasperated look and snatched the jacket from him, rectifying the situation with no small amount of haste. Before Ithar had a chance to ask about any nagging questions he had, such as  _ who is Bastila _ and  _ why does she need an escort _ , he was brandishing something else; a small keycard and a finger, this time pointing at the door.

“Listen, we have to reach the bridge. Sooner or later those Sith are going to board this ship, and my- our mission means nothing if our commanding officer falls into enemy hands.”

Ithar nodded, Trask’s words sinking in despite his state of utter bewilderment. He slowly reached out for the keycard, half expecting the soldier to whip out yet another item of clothing and assault him with it. Trask’s look of urgency softened somewhat as he handed over the card, quickly going over to a nearby equipment locker as Ithar slid the small device into the locking mechanism.

The door bleeped and slid open as Trask returned, offering the other man a blaster and a vibroblade. Ithar took one look at the former, shrugged, then took the short sword instead - seemingly unconcerned with the fact that  _ both _ weapons were his.

“You're going to need it lad; the Sith aren't all going to wait until you're close enough to look them in the eye before they start shooting, and you're no good to Bastila dead.”

Ithar didn't give a verbal response, but strapped the blaster to his thigh, sword still in hand. He gave Trask an oddly meaningful look, before stepping out into the corridor.

The stark white hallway was deserted, and the two men were greeted only by the distant sound of warning klaxons and the mechanical whining of a door that had been damaged beyond immediate repair. A damaged astromech slowly and repetitively rammed into a smoking computer terminal; its primary motivators clearly fried by a power surge.

Trask patted Ithar on his shoulder, gesturing for the younger man to carry onward. The fighting had clearly passed over this section, though structural damage from the bombardment had clearly taken its toll. The two moved quickly and cautiously through the ship, Trask checking a datapad for directions.

“ _ Shit _ ,” the older man swore as yet another door refused to budge. “bloody thing's servos have burnt out. There goes the fast route - we can probably make it around, but chances are that there's going to be more of the bastards that way.”

“Could be worse.” Ithar mumbled, the statement falling out of his mouth with little grace. A vague image of a Hutt flickered in his mind for a moment - he wanted to say something more, but the words eluded him.

“Yes? Well, the Sith aren't outer rim thugs on Kor’tula’s payroll. Most of them started out in the Republic navy and are veterans of the Mandalorian Wars. You're not smuggling spice past tired customs officials any more.”

Ithar shrugged, giving Trask a playful, arrogant smirk. For a moment, there was a shadow of concern in Trask’s eyes, but it faded quickly with the sound of footsteps rushing down the next corridor along.

“Yes? Well, the Sith aren't outer rim thugs on Kor’tula’s payroll. Most of them started out in the Republic navy and are veterans of the Mandalorian Wars. You're not smuggling spice past tired customs officials any more.”

Ithar shrugged, giving Trask a playful, arrogant smirk. For a moment, there was a shadow of concern in Trask’s eyes, but it faded quickly with the sound of footsteps rushing down the next corridor along.

A squad of Republic naval troopers rushed down the hallway, lightly armed with blaster pistols and lightweight body armour. They appeared to be in a hurry, and Ithar instinctively started off in their direction. Trask hesitated for a moment before running after the smuggler, muttering something beneath his breath.

* * *

 

Blasterfire rang out throughout the corridor as the Republic troopers fought desperately against their attackers. Featureless black carapaces shielded the Sith boarders from hostile fire, the reflective black faceplates giving them the impression of droids rather than men.

The first of the Republic soldiers was hit square in the chest; and the other two were forced to take cover behind the supply crates that been scattered by an earlier explosion, retreating back down one of the halls. The five Sith advanced, two drawing vibroblades as the others provided covering fire - picking up the pace like hounds chasing the scent of blood.

Blood splattered across pristine white walls and the first Sith fell to the floor as a brutal strike came from his flank. The same blade flashed in the harsh light, slicing through armourweave and flesh alike - leaving the fallen Sith headless. Before his companion had the time to register the man's death, Ithar was on her, seemingly ignorant of the gunners at the end of the hallway.

She raised her sword just in time to block, though the force of the blow caused her to stagger towards the wall. Barely a heartbeat later she struggled to parry another flurry, losing balance. A quick slash took her legs from under her, and it was over.

Noticing that their vanguard had been butchered so suddenly, the Sith gunners focused their fire on the new threat - Or at least, tried. Ithar’s sword plunged in the torso of the closest trooper before her companion managed to snap off a few shots.

A look of surprise crossed Ithar’s face the very same moment that Trask brought him crashing to the floor, just as the smuggler was winged by a plasma bolt. Bringing his carbine to bear, Trask returned fire, slagging his attacker's armour and bringing the man to his knees.

At this point the Republic soldiers had rallied, picking off the last gunner with concentrated fire.

“Take their rifles, they're going to do you more good than those tiny things at any rate” Trask’s voice was the first to break the silence. He was still slumped on the floor in a heap with Ithar, who was lying in a growing pool of blood. Ithar climbed to his knees and shuffled away from the dead Sith, giving Trask the opportunity to lean over and inspect the smuggler’s injuries - but not before getting a glimpse of his expression.

It was in his eyes for only a moment, but there was a strange intensity to Ithar that Trask hadn't seen previously. Not when navigating the barracks, and certainly not when he was wrestling with the man to get him out of bed and dressed.

Whatever it was disappeared in less than a heartbeat, and Ithar pushed himself to his knees - seemingly oblivious to both his wounds and his blood-smeared clothing. Instead, he reached out to snatch the dead Sith’s sword from her hands, and climbed back to his feet.

“I guess that means you're doing alright then. Don't worry, we've not far until we get to the bridge.” he gave the man a brief nod, and Ithar returned it without so much as a word before heading onwards.

Trask was more than comfortable to let the other man lead, mulling over his mission briefing. He'd considered the matter to be almost fantastical - especially with how  _ clueless _ his charge had seemed. But after this?

He looked at Ithar again. Gone was the bumbling confusion he'd awoken with, replaced by the lethal grace of something predatory.

Despite his skill and experience in combat, Trask was unnerved, double checking his blaster. Sure, the briefing had told him that it was unlikely for Ithar to remember  _ who _ and  _ what _ he was; but Trask had been given clearance to use any means necessary to subdue the former Sith, should he show any signs of reverting to his old self. Yet regardless of his knowledge and prowess, he doubted that he would be able to take on  _ that _ . Amnesia or no, Ithar had carved through three Sith on his own with next to no effort - there was no telling what a resurgent Revan might be capable of.

He’d heard stories of course, rumours  _ certainly _ , but how much of it was true had never really been confirmed or denied either way. The Force was the domain of Jedi, not soldiers - no matter how senior they were

Fear lingered in Trask’s gut. He didn’t want to see what Revan could be capable of, and even though Ithar seemed compliant enough, doubt grew in his heart regardless.

* * *

 

The bridge door was a  _ problem _ \- a problem beyond Trask’s meagre mechanical knowhow. It was clear enough to a rank amateur that the control panel had been hit by a stray blaster bolt, but how to actually fix it was beyond him. He slammed a fist against the heavy blast door in anger, glancing around for anything that he could use to pry it open - a crowbar, sturdy enough debris,  _ anything _ .

Ithar however simply shrugged, moving over to the slagged mess of what had once been an interface panel. Frowning, he rummaged through his jacket pockets on a hunch, then froze - pulling out a small butterfly knife. Wedging the blade under the control panel, he was able to carefully pry away the softened mass of metal and plastic, exposing the circuitry below. Relief flowed through him - the panel had dissipated most of the blast, leaving the mechanisms beneath largely intact.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Trask spoke, his voice loaded with concern and urgency. It was understandable, given the situation.

Ithar glanced over his shoulder for a moment before cutting a few key wires, stripping back the insulation and reattaching them - bypassing the fried switches.

The door shuddered and slid open, Ithar shooting Trask a cocky smile and gestured in its direction.

“You first.”

* * *

 

The bridge was devoid of all life; its only occupants were a destroyed droid, and a number of corpses - both Sith and Republic.

“She's not here?” Ithar glanced at Trask, an eyebrow raised in concern.

“No, but I'm not seeing any dead Jedi either. Look at these wounds.” Trask pointed at one of the corpses “That's from a lightsaber, not a blaster. I'm guessing that the Sith came through here and forced Bastila into a retreat, though not without casualties. I'm not seeing the pilot either.”

Ithar looked at Trask expectantly, and the other man shrugged in return, taking Ithar's expression as a prompt for further explanation. “The pilot's a good man. His name's Carth Onasi, and given his experiences, I wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to get Bastila off of the ship if the bridge had to be abandoned.”

“How?”

“This ship doesn't have a hangar bay, but the escape pods aren't far off. Given that we haven't been blasted out of the sky yet, I'm guessing that they haven't caught her or given up - which is good news, but we need to get going.”

Ithar glanced out of the viewport for a moment, taking in the sight of the planet below. Silvers and grays covered its surface, divided by delicate webs of light; the telltale sign of an ecumenopolis, a city spanning the entire planet.

In the back of his mind,  _ something  _ nagged at him. The faint, mental image of a planet similar to the one below, but markedly different; spires reaching through the clouds, and a single mountain range loomed east of an artificial sea.

And then it was gone, shattered by a clap on the shoulder.

“We  _ have _ to go.”

Trask was looking at him, that gruff look on his face once more. Ithar glanced back out of the window once again, before heading off once more - haunted by a fading sense sense of déjà vu and a dull ache in the back of his skull.

* * *

 

The two marched down another clinical white corridor, its walls scarred by blaster burns. So far, the only other people they’d run into were corpses, but that did nothing to assuage the growing sense of dread that crept into his mind. He couldn’t place just what it was, but he had a feeling that  _ something _ was going to happen.

Trask, however, didn’t look particularly perturbed. His expression was neutral and focussed, and he appeared alert as they approached a fork in the corridor, leading to yet another doorway. He paused for a moment, gesturing for Ithar to stop as he  _ listened _ .

There was a sound coming from the doorway; a frantic, panicked hammering. And beneath that, the sound of muffled shouts.

Someone was calling for help.

Trask hit the door switch, blaster pointed down at the floor as the door slid open - only to be greeted by the corpse of a Republic officer, feet hanging inches off the ground. The man’s neck had been snapped, broken at an unnatural angle, and his expression was one of blind terror. And then there was the man stood further down the hallway with one hand outstretched.

He was a sinister one; balding and clad in black robes, his armour possessing a matte finish that almost devoured the light rather than reflected it. His lips curled into a cold smile that made Trask’s skin crawl to look at.

And in his right hand he held a lightsaber, its blade a bloody red.

Trask muttered something profane under his breath, pulling a short blade from his belt. It wasn’t ideal - but nothing about the whole situation was ideal. He remembered his mission; to ensure Bastila got out alive, to ensure that  _ Revan _ survived, and he knew that the whole thing was much bigger than one man.

“Ithar, go - I’ll hold him off. Get out of here, find Bastila.”

“Bu-”

“Find Bastila!” he barked the order and slammed his fist against the door controls, not taking his eyes away from the Dark Jedi who stepped towards him with a look of unrivalled  _ glee _ in his eyes.

“Trask!”

The hydraulic door slammed shut, leaving Ithar stood alone in the hallway. Despite the chaos that had broken out, this section of the ship was silent - even the turbolaser fire that rocked the ship did nothing more than shake the deck beneath his feet.

Yet Ithar's heart still hammered away, mind empty of anything but a deep sense of helplessness and loss. Time slipped away until he could grasp Trask’s last words.

_ Find Bastila. _

His commlink bleeped, catching his attention. Fumbling around in his pockets for a moment he pulled it out and activated it.

“This is Carth, I’ve gotten Bastila into one of the escape pods - everyone else is either dead or have left the ship. You and Trask are the only ones left, and I’m not leaving until I’ve got everyone I can off this ship.” The voice was urgent. Unlike Trask, Carth sounded a lot more agitated - there was an effort to stay calm, yes, but Ithar got the feeling that the other man was urging him to  _ hurry up _ as professionally as he could.

“Trask’s - he… won’t make it - where are you?” Ithar stammered out, his ears catching Carth’s faint sigh before the pilot continued.

“I’m in the life support module just outside of the escape pod bay, it’s not far from your location. Just keep heading down the corridor, it’ll be the door at the end. But hurry up, we can’t stay here much longer - once the Sith realise that Bastila isn’t on board, they’ll blast this ship into pieces.”

“I - understood”

Taking a few hesitant steps away from the sealed bulkhead, Ithar pocketed the commlink once more and turned, setting off at a quick pace. Once more, he felt the faint impression of déjà vu lingering somewhere in his mind - but there was no time to think about it

* * *

 

Duroch sighed as he patrolled the corridor. It was obvious that this section had been cleared, so he didn’t really see the point in leaving someone to stand there and keep watch whilst the corvette burned. If he had a choice, he’d get right back on the boarding craft and keep the seats warm until they were ready to punch out - it was better than waiting quietly and hoping that the repulsor units weren’t going to give in. Maybe it wasn’t the bravest line of thought, but he’d seen how  _ ruthless _ the admiral had gotten, and wouldn’t put it past the man to let his own troops burn.

_ Something _ had gotten into that man, something cruel and unpleasant. It was almost as if he was trying to prove something to himself - whatever it was.

He let out a long, drawn out whistle, lazily turning on his heel - right into a splitting pain, cold steel piercing his gut. Shaking hands wrapped around the blade as he realised that he wasn't going to make it to the boarding craft. Looking up, the last thing that Duroch saw was the flickering of a failing stealth field, and the feral hazel eyes of the man who had killed him.

* * *

 

As the door slid open Ithar braced himself for more Sith, but instead the face that confronted him was a friendlier one - or at least, one not in a Sith uniform.

The man stood before him was a few inches shorter than Ithar, with short brown hair and worried eyes. He wore a heavy trenchcoat over his uniform, and one of two blaster pistols was in his right hand - he’d clearly been expecting Sith troopers rather than aid. The moment he realised that Ithar wasn’t one of them, he let out a sigh and his shoulders relaxed - but that wariness in his eyes didn’t quite go away. There was still an alertness that clung to him even as Ithar entered the pod bay and sealed the door.

“You’re Carth?”

“Yes, but any questions you have will have to wait for later. Any moment now the Sith could realise that Bastila’s not on board, and I’m hoping that they don’t feel like taking prisoners.”

Something set Ithar on edge. Maybe it was the urgency, or the gaping sense of  _ loss _ that he could feel - but it clawed at his throat and heart. He felt simultaneously paralysed and galvanised; wanting to run back, to find the man who had helped him so far. But at the same time, part of him felt utterly helpless - and it must have shown on his face, because that worry in Carth’s eyes intensified.

“Listen, whatever’s on your mind we can discuss planetside once we’ve found somewhere safe to hide; but we can’t do that if we don’t go, come on!”

“It’s… alright - you’re right.” Ithar blinked, flinching back into the present at Carth’s urging. Frustration flickered in his mind as he tried to force out the jumble of thoughts that had piled up in reaction “We should…”

Sighing, he hurried over to the last escape pod, sliding through the entrance and settling into one of the seats. Carth was not far behind, hitting the eject switch as soon as he was secure.

It felt so very familiar; the locking mechanism blowing apart, the escape thrusters firing, and that slow, graceful fall away from the crumbling ship. But of course it would - the  _ Endar Spire _ wasn’t the first burning wreck he’d had to abandon. After all, there was that time above Ord Mantell…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This would have been out sooner if real life commitments hadn't eaten my time and will to look at a word processor for two weeks straight. This being said, I've already started on chapter 5: starring space ramen, stolen laundry, and yet another head injury.
> 
> I'm beginning to wonder if there could be a drinking game made out of KotOR and cranial trauma.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any commentary, criticism, or analysis; I entirely welcome and encourage feedback as long as it is civil and polite. Chapter 2 is also complete, and I have part 3 and 4 currently in the works.


End file.
